


Blades

by tangerinestars



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinestars/pseuds/tangerinestars
Summary: A vignette-y oneshot around why Tessa Virtue *really* kept the same pair of skates for two years. Fluffity fluff like cotton candy.





	Blades

**Author's Note:**

> Tessa mentioned during her CTV takeover that she’s worn the same pair of skates for two years, even though most people change them yearly. That moment stuck out to me, because there was obviously a connection to those comeback skates, be it comfort or superstition. And then of course an idea hit me like lightning, and this happened. Enjoy!

 

_January 2016_

  

His dad was the one who let him know. It was a simple little text message, but it caused Scott’s heart to skip a beat.

 

 

**They r here**

 

 

He’d put his phone away and desperately tried not to drive to his parent’s house like a madman. Not a good time to get arrested.

 

 

There was a big brown box sitting on the kitchen table. It had shipping labels, scuffs; he cut through the tape with a kitchen knife and pulled the box up out of the plastic peanuts. He sat it on the table, and opened the lid, peeking and examining everything, the laces neatly tucked away. He checked their size just one more time, just to be sure.

 

 

***

 

 

The restaurant he drove them to was just outside of town. He wanted to be truly anonymous, not risking the possibility of someone spotting them together. He’d read reviews and booked reservation under a fake name. He’d ushered her inside, his hand grazing her lower back. He whispered that she looked beautiful, and she squeezed his hand before she sat down in her chair.

 

 

He loved the smile she gave him when they were alone. He loved hearing her laugh, even at the same old jokes he’d always told. He loved hearing her lose her breath, grip the sheets; he loved hearing her say his name over and over again, wherever he could- on the ice and off. He loved the way her eyes would shine in candlelight. He loved how her hair would frame her face when it was down. He loved watching her fiddle with her rings when she was bored, he loved the way she’d look at him. He loved everything about her.

 

 

The drive home was comfortably quiet. His fingers intertwined in hers, and he drove with one hand on the steering wheel. She leaned against the window, legs crossed, his hand and her hands sitting on her lap. Small snow flurries would whip around the car, and melt into raindrops which would scatter the light from oncoming traffic.

 

 

He drove to her cottage, familiar roads and twists he knew so well. He rembered the times they’d spent painting walls and refinishing her hardwood floors, the times they would dance in her empty kitchen, and spin like the tiles were ice. He remembered the look on her face -not long ago- as she glanced around her living room, when they agreed to move to Montreal, in a few months, knowing she would practically move out, though she barely felt like she’d moved in.

 

 

The box sat in the backseat, hidden under jackets and a Team Canada touque. The engine shut off, and she unbuckled her seatbelt, grabbing her jacket from the car, and fishing her keys out of her clutch.

 

 

“I’ll be there in a minute!” He grinned and she shrugged, closing the car door behind her.

 

 

The outside light flickered on as she walked up to the door, and turned the key. He could see the kitchen illuminate and he unbuckled, heart racing. Somehow he was more nervous about this moment than the Olympics, and he’d been there _twice_.

 

 

He collected the box, and tried to figure out how to hold it- in front of him? To the side? He kicked closed the car door in the night air and shivered, flakes falling softly around him and settling on the grass. He walked up the steps, and opened the door. She was pouring them glasses of wine, and her back was turned. He closed the door behind him, and set the box on a side table.

 

 

“Tess?”

 

 

“Mmm?” She turned and handed him a glass of wine and kissing him softly.

 

 

“I wanna talk to you.” A look of concern crossed her face, and he smiled.

 

 

“Nothing bad.” He put his wine glass down, and she did as well; he grabbed her hands, and brought them up to his heart, looking her in the eye.

 

 

“I cannot even begin to tell you how much the last nineteen years have meant to me. You committed your life to me, and given me everything by saying yes to our partnership, and yes again to the Olympics for one last go.”

 

He could see tears welling in her eyes. He knew how much she hated crying, but he also knew that she’d cry in front of him more than she would anyone else. He wiped a tear from her eye with their joined hands, and kissed her knuckles.

 

 

“I know we said no distractions, but you’re it for me. No matter what happens, you’re it. And I don’t want to begin this next season without that perfectly clear- I want to be with you. When it’s all beginning and it’s all said and done I want you. I want to win Olympic gold by your side, I want to wake up next to you and skate with you, and cook for you and I want to marry you, if you’ll let me.”

 

 

He pulled his hands away and grabbed the box, dropping to one knee. She was actually crying this time, hands covering her mouth, laughter and tears intermingling together.

 

 

“I know that you don’t want to go there yet, with rings and labels, and so I got you something a little different.”

 

 

He opened the lid to show a red velvet bag, sitting inside tissue paper. She sank to her knees on the kitchen floor, and opened the drawstring, pulling out white Jackson skates, swirling her fingers over the stitching.

 

 

He opened the skates, and pointed out tiny blue stitching on the tongue.

 

 

**TVSM 1997**

 

  

It was just like when they were kids and had carved their names into a picnic table during one of their first “dates.” He’d begun to scribble into the soft wood with a ballpoint pen that subsequently broken and stained his skin and his new khaki shorts. His fingers were blue for a few days and whenever she held his hand it made her smile.

 

 

She placed the skates back into the box, pulling his face down to meet hers, winding his fingers into his hair, breathing him in, holding him tight and never wanting to let go.

 

“I want to replace them with a ring when it’s time for those skates to retire.”

 

***

 

Two years later, they won gold in those boots. People had suggested that she get new ones- it wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it, but day in and day out she skated in the same pair.

 

She skated in them when they won gold in their first Grand Prix, she skated in them when he whispered in her ear that he loved her. She skated in them when they won gold in PyeongChang, and she skated in them for the last time on February 25th, 2018.

 

 

That night on the ice he held her hand and wrapped her in his arms. He listened to the music, and to her breathing, and as the lights changed, he looked her in the eye. There had been a slight feeling of grief surrounding them that day, knowing they’d be saying goodbye to this feeling, going for gold and trying until they got it. But that night, she paused.

 

Their movements matched perfectly, and she knew that she’d do it all again- the heart break and the struggle and the pain and the victory- if only to do it again, to skate by his side.

 

He’d been her constant, a constant source of laughter and pinpricks of heartache, of hugs and encouragement and frustration and when it came down to their last night, their exhibition gala in a divided country, thousands of miles from London, Ontario, that it was well worth the wait.

 


End file.
